


Black Skies Bring Crimson Red

by Wizard95



Series: A Scot In Training [6]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Air Force, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22299400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: Smoke embraces him and debris flies all around -- he's no longer cold, big flames firing up.I'm going to die here, is the next thought he has.
Relationships: Collins/Farrier (Dunkirk)
Series: A Scot In Training [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1251365
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Black Skies Bring Crimson Red

The rain stops just before he arrives to the station. A small corner of the town where the railroad comes in, an even smaller cabin and no seats for the waiting traveller. He takes shelter from the chilly air outside by invitation of the kind clerk.

"Paying your mistress a visit?" The old man smiles at him mischievously as he hands him the ticket, and Collins can't help but return the smile. "Ah, to be young and in love."

Jack takes the towel being offered and puts it around his shoulders with a nod of gratitude.

"Not wearing your uniform, I see" Mr. Dawson takes his seat back, the one facing the road, empty in the humid Sunday morning. 

"I don't have one yet" _and I probably never will. Not that one, anyway._

_No blue strips._

"Ah, pity! They adore you pilot champs"

Collins avoids the old-man's eyes, doesn't tell him he's far from being one, far from being with a lass, too. He clears his throat and checks the clock standing on the small shelf. Only a quarter of an hour and he'll be on his way.

"Sun's coming out -- thank heavens for that" Mr. Dawson leans just over the window and peeks outside. "Too much water ruin the crops, you see. We try to do our bit. Young men like yourself need a good basket of vegetables to keep their spirits up!"

"I think the RAF's got us covered. Better send them to our soldiers" Collins mumbles under his breath, fidgeting with the now-empty cup and avoiding the man's eyes still. "Got some months left of training, not where the real fighting's happening, a classroom."

"You'll get there, son" They're close enough that he pats him encouragingly on the shoulder. "Got to learn taking off before you fly at all, eh?"

Collins smiles.

"Right you are, sir"

_And load a gun before you shoot._

"More tea...?"

"Oh!" He straightens up and offers a hand. "Collins, sir. Jack Collins"

The clerk smiles as he takes the empty cup and fills it in again, gives him a warm handshake.

"Here you go, Jack."

Then he places the kettle back on the small stove in the corner and sits to watch him drink it with a pleased smile. Collins gets the impression that he stares at him too much too lovingly, and when he spots a small framed picture on the same shelf the clock's standing, he quickly adverts his eyes and pretends he didn't see it.

A young man in RAF uniform.

He gets a gut-wrenching feeling and suddenly the tea's a bit harder to swallow down.

"It's very quiet" Collins clears his throat, a bit desperate to fill the silence, and he glances outside, this brings Mr. Dawson back from his reverie.

"Ah, yes. That'll happen on a Sunday" he explains with boredom. "I was just taking off when you showed up," and he points over the window to a cottage on the opposite side, almost completely hidden by trees.

Collins hops off his seat immediately.

"Don't let me keep you" he returns the cup. "I can wait outside, rain's--"

"Sit down," Mr. Dawson puts that hand on his shoulder again until he's obliged, "my, you really are soaked through!”

Just in the nick of time, an alarming cough escapes Collins' mouth. Mr. Dawson is already at the door at hearing it.

"I'll get you something warm to wear..."

Collins stands up again and peeks out the window.

"There's really no need--!"

"Won't be long! You keep an eye out for that train!" Is the last thing Collins hears him say before he's quickly out of earshot. He watches his long coat flap away with the wind, and sees him disappear inside the cottage not long after.

Now alone in the small cabin, he slumps down and lets out a long sigh. Another string of coughs follow and he takes the towel off his shoulders and attempts to dry off his hair.

The clock on the shelf reads 7:50.

He stares at the ticket in his hand.

Lenny better not fucking open his mouth. Being dismissed for leaving the force willingly is the last thing he needs. Now _that_ would be a disgrace. Won't be a nice sight on his papers, either. Nobody has to know he’s changing sides. Not yet.

He shakes his head. That’s ridiculous. _You’re not changing sides. You’re not fighting for the Germans._

Still, he can’t help but feel like he’s betraying the Force. Him sneaking out without permission and telling no-one about it.

_Told Lenny about it._

He's probably sound asleep.

They must all be.

When he looks back up Mr. Dawson's outside again bringing with him what looks like a very thick sweater, and when he's halfway there, Collins starts hearing a terrifyingly-familiar whistling sound. He stands up and does nothing at first, thinking there's maybe a slight probability that he's imagining it -- concussion still livid.

He sees the clerk stop on his tracks then and look up to the sky, and that's all the confirmation he needs to bolt right out of the cabin, knocking the cup of tea to the floor and hearing it shatter on the floor behind him. A foreshadowing image of what would come right after.

"GET BACK INSIDE!" He shouts, getting off the platform and jumping over the railroad and now hearing not one, but multiple bombs falling through the air. He runs towards Mr. Dawson but is down on the muddy grass just a breath after, propelled forwards by the impact of the explosives hitting the ground. The sound of the droppings so loud and near that he thinks of nothing for a moment.

Nothing at all.

Smoke embraces him and debris flies all around -- he's no longer cold, big flames firing up.

_I'm going to die here_ , is the next thought he has.

When the smoke clears -- if only for just a moment -- he looks up and sees Mr. Dawson down on the grass as well, just a few feet away. Collins turns on his back unable to hold in the coughing and looks up, in the sky he spots four, five black shapes moving away to the east.

He sees them swiftly dive down in the air to aim and he stumbles to his feet and gets to Mr. Dawson, down on his knees he turns him over and sees him open his eyes.

"Are ye hurt?!" Collins shouts, over the incessant ringing in his ears. He can't even hear himself. "Ye hurt anywhere?!" He repeats, louder, patting down arms and legs and checking his own hands for blood.

Mr. Dawson is coughing too but he shakes his head no.

He helps the old man up, and they both stare at the huge cloud of smoke and fire before them, the now-destroyed railway, cut in half as if it were but a gigantic toy. Nothing left at all of the wooden cabin.

"Jesus…" Collins mouths. He looks to the cottage, far enough from the target that not even the flying pieces of wood had reached it. Concealed enough by the trees to be spotted from the air. 

Someone comes running out.

Collins takes a step towards him with a hand up.

"Stay inside" he warns, and gives Mr. Dawson a meaningful look.

"Dad!" but the young lad pays him no mind, he hurries towards Mr. Dawson and bumps into him.

"I'm fine, Peter, I'm fine"

"Stay in" Collins nods, resolute now. "You're easy pickings out here" he looks to Mr. Dawson, "might not be over."

_And since when do the Germans aim for fucking civilians?!_

He can understand a train station being wanted out of the picture, but there’s nothing of importance in this tiny little village other than the training base itself, and there’s no smoke going up to that side, Collins realizes with a deep sigh.

The old man looks up to the sky and nods, a hand on his son's shoulder leading him back to the house. Collins looks back to the wreckage with a scowl and turns to see the smoke rising up in the city just a few kilometers away.

“Jack!”

He turns around and sees Mr. Dawson tossing something at him.

“Can you drive?”

* * *

“Come on, come on, come on! We haven’t got all day!” Squadron Leader shouts at them from below. They stumble down the stairs and bump into each other in their hurry to line up, some fixing their ties and some others lacing up their shoes sloppily.

“Clayton, Norton, you’re with me. Roberts, you got some medical knowledge, don’t you?”

“Well, yes sir. Me sister’s serving in th--”

“Good! Hop on” he points at the big medical truck behind, motor running already and about to set off. Ronald stays put for a moment, staring at the red-cross painted over its side and at a loss for words. “Soon as you’re able” the Squadron Leader tells him, sending him a bit of a murderous glare.

Ronald reacts, runs over and climbs up nervously on the backside, takes a seat next to the four women. Nobody is in the spirit to make any witty comment about it -- not that they’d risk it either way, with the Squadron Leader looming over them.

Miller checks his wrist-watch and looks over the rest of them to the Wing Commander, who’s coming round the corner with another jeep.

“Right, let’s-- who’s missing?” The Squadron Leader stops short of climbing up on the automobile himself. He counts them over quickly in his head and sure enough, he stares them down with an unfriendly frown. “Where’s the Scot?”

There’s no answer.

A couple of them lean over and look at each other, realizing just _now_ they were short of one man.

“Am I talking to myself?!”

“Collins, sir” Michael provides, Squadron Leader Miller turns to him. “Saw him take off this morning, sir.”

“Take _off_?”

“Walk off sir, early” Michael straightens up his posture as his superior stops in front of him. “Didn’t say where he went, I kept sleeping ‘cos it was our free--”

“Yes, yes” the middle-aged man cuts him off, “free day, so it was. Get your asses on that jeep.”

They scatter around, climb up on both cars and catch up on the medical truck soon enough, sending each other nervous looks but sending the sky up above uneasy looks most of all.

Collins stops in his task for a moment when he sees them arrive, letting out a relieved sigh at the sight of the medical team, small as it seemed to be in comparison to the wounded. He pays that last thought no mind and finishes tying up the piece of cloth around the man’s leg.

“Ye’ll be alright” he says, for the fifth time in the last half hour. Perhaps sixth. He’s lost count. He helps the baker to a sitting position and walks round him to pick up the bundle of makeshift bandages he’s been using -- made of bed-sheets, handed to him by Holly, the town doctor's daughter. A thirteen-year-old sweet girl, astoundingly unbothered by the gory sights before her.

“Jack!” she calls him, over two meters away in front of a wreckage. Jack takes another look behind him and sees his mates loading off supplies, he runs towards the girl. “There’s someone in there” she points inside, although there’s barely even an inside anymore: what’s left of the rooftop is dangling from the corner, a brick wall from the next building about to fall from the side and send it all down.

He hears a groan coming from under the huge piece of concrete already on the dusty ground and turns around immediately.

“Oi!” he shouts, and waves his hand to make Lenny and Matty come over, the ones closest. “Step back, Holly, just in case.”

“What hav’ _you_ been up to?”

"There’s someone under” Collins explains, ignoring Matty’s question. Lenny positions himself opposite him and Matty crouches down near the person’s hand, all that’s visible. “At three” Jack nods towards Leonard, who nods in agreement himself. “One, two, _three_!” Heavier than they’d anticipated, they’re only able to hold it up for five seconds. It’s enough for Matty to get whomever out, he wraps his slender hands over the clothing and drags the body from under there before they lose grasp of the wall.

“ _Christ_ ,” Matty gasps, turning the young man over. And he stares, pinned to the floor by the sight of an iron bar protruding from his stomach.

“Don’t move him” Holly says, a quick-thinker, hopping over what was once a fully functional refrigerator and sprinting off to find her father, no doubt.

“Matty” Lenny calls him but gets no response, Collins approaches him.

“Matty, go get some water” Jack pushes him away gently, standing in between and blocking his view of the wound. 

Matthew stumbles away, pale, nodding absentmindedly.

Jack clutches down next to the barely-conscious young man -- a child, really. Not even old enough for enlisting -- and takes his hand and holds it, gently.

“Help’s coming” he tries a soothing voice and when he sees the boy open his eyes, Jack puts his other hand under his chin gently, preventing him from moving his head but most of all from catching sight of the bloody state of his guts.

Lenny goes somewhere else to make himself useful, but Jack stays put. The boy holds his hand back now, seemingly regaining some of his strength, and keeps his eyes opened -- albeit a little bit out of focus.

Jack tries to keep his own hands from shaking and steals glances around, looking for Holly but not finding her. 

“I’m Jack” he blurts out, mostly to prevent his throat from closing up, “we’ll get you fixed in no time, I promise”

The curly-haired boy attempts to nod, makes a sound and ends up spluttering blood all over his cheeks and neck. Collins’ heart-rate goes wild and his hand clenches under the young man’s chin.

“Ye’ll be alright” he repeats, over and over, knowing full well there’s nothing that can be done. In fact, with a couple more choking sounds he’s gone, and Holly’s father arrives just a moment after, takes a quick look before he disappears again without so much as a word.

Collins’ nowhere near being that immune. He stares at the boy’s face for too long before he too has to be brought back from his trance and sent away.

It’s nurse Jones who asks for his help and Jack stumbles away stealing a helpless look to the corpse he leaves behind; wondering where his parents are and wishing he could just stay a bit longer and find something to cover him up.

There’s no time for that.

“Press it” she tells him, putting a gauze over the man’s opened neck-wound and moving over to his arm, which Collins is sure shouldn’t be at such an odd angle. “Press it harder!” She urges him, and Jack obliges, puts some weight onto it and avoids looking into the man’s eyes, his painful whining makes Jack’s hair stand on end.

Around it’s chaos. More screams of agony, a baby crying nearby and an older sister trying to calm it down to no avail. Nurses making do with sloppy cadets and a few officers taking care of the fires still raging on, assisted by whatever villagers aren’t shell-shocked to be of use.

It seems surreal, how much destruction can be caused in just one minute. How many lives once single shell can take away -- how many limbs -- how many minds it can shatter.

Jack looks down when he feels the warmth of blood staining his hands, again.

“Nurse…” he urges.

How much bloodshed it brings along.

But young nurse Samantha Jones is suddenly looking up as the screaming seems to get louder, and she runs away. Collins only now hears the rumbling sound of another airplane engine, but he doesn’t look up, because the patient’s choking and the blood is staining everything from his hands to his neck to his clothes and even the ground underneath.

And Jack gets the feeling this is another corpse he’ll be leaving behind.

“Get cover!” Some officer shouts near, Jack has a look around and finds that the street is already deserted save for a couple of people on stretchers -- abandoned, too heavy, perhaps even dead.

“Collins, get down here!”

_But this one isn’t dead_ , he thinks, looking to Commander Farrier far opposite, taking cover next to the jeep and keeping Holly next to him.

“Incoming!”

Collins makes a move to leave, but the man takes in a suffering breath the moment he lifts his hands from the wound, and that has him coming back to his position immediately.

_Keep the pressure, keep the blood in._

“Collins, get over here this instant, do you hear me?!” The Wingco orders him, Jack sends him an uneasy look but doesn’t make a move.

_It’s only one plane_ , he thinks as he steals a look to the sky, _only one, won’t get me, won’t land near me. If I leave he dies._

“COLLINS!”

The whistling sound seems to be never-ending, Jack leans over to provide some cover for the wounded man and lowers down his head to avoid any possible hit to his own face.

The bomb drops off to the side of the street where the extensive forest begins, missing its target entirely but turning a few trees to a pile of sticks. The ground grunts and the people scream. The cloud of smoke returns.

Jack trembles all over, can’t catch his breath. When the air has cleared and he can open his eyes without them burning from the dust -- his patient lies open-mouthed and still on the floor. No more choking.

No more living.

“Stay put!” Squadron Leader Miller shouts from somewhere near.

Someone else yanks his clothes and brings him to his feet.

Farrier looks at the dead man below but seems to be unbothered by the sight. He turns to Jack with a killing glare, nostrils flaring, cheeks red. Way too close for comfort. He doesn’t let go of his shirt.

“If I tell you to take cover, you _FUCKING TAKE COVER!_ ”

Collins doesn’t move, takes it like a man -- mostly because his mind is still on that boy back then, now on this man right here, and he can feel both their blood still dripping from his own fingers.

“ _THAT’S AN ORDER!_ ” Farrier rages.

“Yes, sir” Collins answers, deadpan.

“Move your ass!” The Wingco sends him stumbling over to the medical truck, where most of the people are hurdled together. “NOW!”

They wait for ten more minutes.

No more bombs drop off, but the air is fraught with fear. Collins spots quite a few people just staring up, unmoving, out of themselves. Nobody pays them any mind -- physical wounds need tending to: the ones unable to walk are loaded on the medical truck along with the nurses, the rest end up on the two jeeps. Ronald gets snatched away by the Head Nurse.

They’re ordered to stay and assist with the townspeople, walk back and be at base before sundown.  
  
  
  
The Wing Commander rounds them up to a side before jumping onto his driver seat.  
  
  
  
“Keep an eye out,” he tells them in a hushed voice. “Stay _out_ of sight if you see them coming. The RAF has no need for reckless pilots” he sends Collins a warning look. “ _Understood?_ ”

“Yes, sir” comes the collective answer. Jack holds the Wingco’s unfriendly look but doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t mutter out his thoughts. _If trying to save someone’s life is reckless then I’m going to be fuckin' reckless,_ is what he’s thinking.

“Commander, sir” Marley calls him as he’s turning around. Farrier stops and looks back, “does that mean we’ve all passed the test?”

They all stay quiet waiting for an answer, and Collins’ heart-rate goes up again as he remembers why he’d been out of bed so early today and why he’d arrived to the scene before any of them had.

The Wing Commander turns around and starts walking away.

“Yeah, congrats boys” he shouts without turning back, like he doesn’t give a care.

  
  
For a moment, as everyone takes a minute to celebrate their passing over to practical training, Jack considers that perhaps the Wing Commander hadn’t wanted to put him in the spotlight, perhaps he’d thought it better to break the news to him alone so as to save him the embarrassment. He shakes away the thought with a snort almost immediately, as Marley gives him a cheerful pat on the shoulder.

Farrier wouldn’t do such a thing. If anything, he’d probably relish in the opportunity to make him look like an idiot.

Against all odds, he’d taken a step further on the ladder to getting his pilot wings.

* * *

After long hours of providing whatever assistance is needed -- sweeping away dust and piling up rubble to a side, trying to assemble back furniture that isn’t otherwise reduced to useless pieces of wood -- they all start making their way back to their lodgings.

  
  
Another thing that’d completely escaped Jack’s mind was Mr. Dawson’s car, which he spots parked to a side, right where he'd left it.

“Aw, hell” he mumbles, walking towards the black Beetle. “I’ve got to return it” he says, fishing out the forgotten set of keys from his pocket. A few heads turn around.

“You sneaky bastard!” Matty laughs.

“Is that your girlfriend’s?”

“I thought you were engaged!” Marley elbows him playfully on the ribs. Collins rolls his eyes.

“Don’t know what gave you that impression” he mumbles, too drained out of energy to keep the story up.  
  
  


“Well who’s this Anna that you keep sending letters to?” Michael chimes in.  
  


  
Collins jumps into the driver’s seat just as Lenny slides in from the other side. Soon enough Marley and Matty are getting in on the back after a short-lived brawl for it.

“Keep it quiet lads,” Collins says as Lenny rolls his window down. “And don’t knock the dirt off your feet.”

“Oi boys, ten pounds say we make it there first!” Marley shouts from his own window. Collins slows down as they drive past the rest of them. He spots Michael giving them the middle finger on the rear-view mirror, and a few of the others start running after them.

“Keep marchin’ boys!” Lenny laughs as he sticks his head out. “Left, right, left!”  
  
  
  
“You’ll get it, Norton!”

They fall silent after that. After they leave the broken town with broken people behind and find themselves alone in each other’s company. Marley starts dozing off at the back and Matty quietly stares out his own window, lost in thought. Jack tries to keep his attention on the road but finds himself repeatedly staring at his own hands resting on the steering wheel. Dirty and dusty, blood under his fingernails.

That’ll be a pain in the neck to wash off.

There’s a light on outside when they pull over. Collins has a look behind only to find both his mates sound asleep slightly leaning on one another. Lenny blinks awake next to him as well.

“Look lively lads!” Jack tells them, and when they groan an intelligible response he gets off and slams the door. Mr. Dawson’s son is at the porch and soon the old man himself is making his way towards them.  
  
  
  
There’s a brief exchange of words in which Jack apologizes for the delay, introduces his mates -- Lenny the only one awake enough to come closer and shake the man’s hand -- and gratefully turns down an invitation for supper. Mr. Dawson doesn’t push, he only watches them go with a sad look on his face.

Collins finds himself walking beside Lenny one more time, as Matty and Marley slag off behind, their pace ever-so languid.

“Do you think we were the target?” Leonard asks him, passing over his pack of cigarettes and lighting both his and Jack’s after a moment. “You think they missed?”

Jack shakes his head.

“That’s a hell of a miss if they did. We’re quite far off.”

“Fuckin’ bastards…” Matty mumbles from behind.

Lenny has a quick look past his own shoulder and lowers his voice.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t catch that train” he points at Jack with the cigarette before putting it back in between his lips. “Told ya it was a rushed thing to do.”

Collins mumbles noncommittally. It seemed but a distant issue, now. Signing up for the army, failing his tests and leaving the Air Force. A small inconvenience in comparison to the events of the day. He finds he can’t even be happy about it, doesn’t find any feelings of joy in him. Not now. Not today.

Not after seeing people die, he doesn’t give a fuck about some petty test results.

  
  
Washed and in fresh-clean clothing, they head for the dining room and get a warm meal and a very patriotic speech from the Air Marshal, pride and bravery and a bright future for the RAF with young dedicated men like them, he says. Ronald gets a special mention for his assistance at the medical wing but he has little to no energy to be glad about it. Everyone else makes a ruckus and claps and whistles on his behalf.

There’s no explicit mention of the attack or the Luftwaffe at all. And none of the men bring it up either.

Collins finds he’s got no appetite: he stares at the food being offered with a blank look. The beetroots swim in a pool of red-ish juice and Jack glaces down to his now-clean hands holding the plate and sees them dripping blood for a split second. Someone brushes against his arm and he blinks and moves to the next option. Boiled eggs and rice. He has a bit of that to keep up appearances.

**Author's Note:**

> Mr. Dawson, yay! Happy 2020 y'all! I hope I made up for the wait with this long and heart-breaking update?


End file.
